A/N: Thank you to all my lovely reviewers (kissedangelzxxx, CalmintheChaos, tor62442, Christine, PhrasesForTheYoung How Convenient, tessa626, GothicGirlxxx, Zarra Rous, Angela, Goth Angel UK and Kiyoshi). I'm sorry to leave you with a cliffhanger but hopefully this chapter should resolve a lot.

Once again warnings for a Sherlock/John pairing, smuttiness, sexual tension and language. No likey, no, um read-y?

Back From The Dead Because Of You

Chapter Four

John felt the world slowly swimming back into focus. There were bright lights, bleeping noises, the sound of people talking and a face. A face he knew well slowly coming together in front of him.

"Sherlock?" His voice came out a croak. How long had he been out for?

"It's Lestrade, John. You were stabbed earlier tonight. You've been out about seven hours."

The room had come dramatically into focus now. He was in a hospital bed, hooked up to a variety of monitors. And there was Greg Lestrade, sitting by his bed, a look of relief on his tanned face.

"Lestrade? Where's Sherlock?"

"He's… Well… He's outside. Handcuffed to my car." John smiled despite everything. There was clearly a story here.

"Handcuffed?"

"Well, he was worried about you in his way, and he was making something of a nuisance of himself. He was demanding to see the credentials of every doctor or nurse who came near you but then was giving them hell if they didn't give you enough attention. In the end I thought it best to remove him from the hospital until you were awake but he wouldn't go back to Baker Street and I couldn't trust him not to come back in so I handcuffed him to the car."

"He'll pick the lock."

"Not these ones he won't. I got them from Mycroft who got them from Irene Adler. They're her very special, can't-be-picked handcuffs and the key is currently in my pocket." Lestrade smiled, clearly chuffed to have got one over on Sherlock Holmes at long last. John, meanwhile was very glad he was tucked under several layers of sheets and blankets. The thought of Sherlock held firm by a pair of sex handcuffs was causing him a severe problem inside his hospital issue pyjamas.

"Anyway, John, don't you want to know how you are?" Lestrade was smirking now and John just knew he was inferring all kinds from the fact that John had asked about Sherlock before anything else.

"Well, I'm guessing I'm alive?"

Lestrade laughed. "Yes. By no small miracle the knife hit scar tissue in your shoulder. You lost a lot of blood and apparently you'll be very sore but there's no permanent damage and you'll live. Although the way Sherlock was carrying on you'd think you were at death's door. You're in a better state than the killer. A Mr Peter Barclay. He's currently still out cold. He'll be able to stand trial but Sherlock gave his face such a good kicking that his own mother wouldn't recognise him." John wasn't sure whether it was inappropriate to laugh, but he felt like it anyway. "I'll go get him, should I?" Lestrade asked.

"Please."

Lestrade left the room to get the presumably irate detective while John lay back against the pillows and tried to remember everything. He remembered shooting Mrs Hudson's attacker (oh, Christ, Mrs Hudson! How was she? He'd have to ask Sherlock) and then being stabbed. After that it was all a bit hazy. He remembered Sherlock holding him and commanding him not to die, but after that it was a complete blank. A couple of nurses came and went but John was pretty much left to himself for a good ten minutes.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the door flying open and Sherlock swooping in, all angular features and coat tails. He looked like a man who had lived a thousand years of torment since John had last laid eyes on him. His normally handsome features were drawn and his already pale skin was the colour of plaster of Paris. John noticed harsh red bands on his wrists where he had presumably been straining against Lestrade's handcuffs once he realised he couldn't pick the lock. He looked so thoroughly miserable – like John had never seen him before – that all John wanted to do was hold him and make it all better. But as he attempted to sit up to stretch his arms out to his friend, he felt a sharp pain in his wounded shoulder and was forced to flop back down with a whimper.

"John? Are you alright John? What's the matter?" Sherlock's voice was filled with urgency and panic.

"I'm fine, Sherlock." John croaked. "I just tried to move and, it would seem, that's something I can't do at the moment." He smiled sardonically at his friend.

"I wasn't here when you woke up."

"No."

"I wanted to be. But Lestrade insisted on locking me in his car using industrial-grade handcuffs."

"I hope he left the window open a crack."

Sherlock blinked slowly after this last comment before he seemed to realise John was making a joke. He smiled and sat down in the chair that had, earlier, been occupied by Lestrade.

"How's Mrs Hudson?" John asked, feeling guilty that this hadn't been the first thing he'd asked when he came round.

"She's shook up but she's not injured. He was an ex-boyfriend. She'd dated him for a bit after her husband's execution but split up with him because he was a bit odd. He duped her the same way he did the other women. She's going to stay with her nephew in the Lakes for a little while to get some rest. We have to fend for ourselves for a bit."

John laughed. It hurt but he didn't care. "That'll be fun. I can hardly move and you're generally useless."

Sherlock didn't look angry. Instead he gave a small smile. "I could hire a cleaner."

"I think we'll cope, Sherlock. I'm not sure a cleaner-for-hire could deal with the body parts scattered around are flat, do you?"

Sherlock didn't say anything for a long while after that. John watched him and realised that there was something bothering the detective. John knew it was useless in situations like this to get the detective to open up. He'd do it himself when he was good and ready. So John just lay there and thought. Thought about how once he was home in Baker Street he was going to tell Sherlock everything about how he felt, tell him that he loved him and hope for the best. He glanced over at the handsome detective, who seemed to be on the verge of saying something but it was as if he couldn't find the right words. Eventually, he spoke.

"John… I… I'm sorry." John opened his mouth to ask what Sherlock could possibly have to be sorry for but the detective ignored him and continued. "When I 'died', I did it to protect you. You, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. But mostly you. In fact, you were really the only one I thought about. So I 'died' because of you. But I came back from the dead because of you too."

The detective paused, seemingly searching for words again. John waited with baited breath. He wasn't sure – he could never predict Sherlock – but it sounded if the world's only consulting detective was about to beat him to the punch and declare his own feelings.

"I… I couldn't function without you John. I was alone. Lonely. Like it was before I met you but worse because then I knew what it was to have a… A… A friend." John's heart sank but he kept listening. "It didn't matter how many people I surrounded myself with, how many times I spoke with Molly. It wasn't you. It took me weeks to deduce what was going on, but in the end I could only come to one conclusion. That I… That I felt more for you than just friendship. And once I realised that, I knew I couldn't stay 'dead'. I had to come back to Baker Street. To you."

John felt his heart leap in his chest. He knew what it was taking for Sherlock to say all of this. He knew that Sherlock couldn't say the L-word. But John had never expected him to. It probably wasn't in his vocabulary. John was happy just knowing that the detective cared enough to say these things. The doctor could tell, though, that Sherlock wasn't finished so he waited.

"When I came back I told myself that it would all be fine because you were safe, that I could keep you safe. But then tonight… Tonight this happened and it was my fault. If it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have been there and you wouldn't have got hurt. Nearly killed." Sherlock had been saying most of this to his knees, but now he looked up and John could see tears glistening in his eyes. "I thought I'd lost you. And I don't want to be alone again. And without you, I'm alone."

John knew it was his turn now. "Sherlock, it wasn't your fault. I go where you go, yes, everyone knows that. But that's my choice because without you, I'm alone too. I got hurt, yes, but I'm OK. It happens. But it's not your fault and you have to remember that. I'm a grown man. I make my own decisions." Sherlock didn't say anything, just looked at John with those piercing blue eyes. John knew he was waiting for a reply to the other thing he had said.

He addressed that now. "And as for feeling more than just friendship… Well… I feel the same. I think I always have and, as much as you infuriate me, steal my things and treat me like your own personal tea-maker, I'm pretty sure I always will."

ooo

Sherlock Holmes wasn't often rendered speechless. He often chose not to speak but that was a different thing. Right now he was speechless. He had poured out his feelings –a novelty in itself since for most of his life he had believed he didn't have any – to the only person he had ever cared about and that person felt the same. It had taken nearly losing that person twice to make him say it but now he had and it hadn't blown up in his face. If only all of his experiments could go this well. Not that John was an experiment. Far from it.

He saw John smiling at him, amusement playing on his face, and then the detective saw him laugh. "What?"

"Well, usually, when you tell someone you… You care about them, and they say it back, you kiss. Now, I can't move so you're going to have to come to me."

Sherlock froze. For all his highly erotic fantasies about the man lying in front of him, the detective was painfully aware that he had absolutely no experience of any kind of physical intimacy and that included kissing. It wasn't like Sherlock Holmes to lack confidence in anything but right now all he could find himself thinking was, what if I'm not good at it? What if I kiss him and he changes his mind? "Right, erm…"

He half-rose from his chair but stopped when he saw the look John was giving him, half-confused, half-hurt. "You do want to kiss me, Sherlock?" John's voice was shaky, uncertain and very sad.

What sort of question was that? Of course Sherlock wanted to kiss John. "Yes, John. Yes. It's just…" He couldn't say it. Couldn't say that in all his fantasies, John had taken the lead, had kissed him, had taught him. Because Sherlock Holmes did not find it easy to express his feelings, and he found it even harder to express that he didn't know everything. But Sherlock did knew that if he didn't do something quickly then he would hurt John and probably lose him again. John would think that Sherlock's confession was just empty words, an overreaction to his stabbing and John would think he'd laid himself bare for nothing and humiliated himself.

Sherlock could already see those thoughts forming in John's mind. It was like they were typed above his head, hanging in the air, accusing Sherlock.

So Sherlock took the only course of action open to him. He got out of the chair and knelt by John's bedside, leaning over the doctor and staring fixedly into his brown eyes. "Of course Iwant to kiss you." And with that he brought his lips to John's.

It was sweet, tender, chaste but Sherlock was pretty sure from the low moaning noise John made that he was doing it right. He took care not to lean on John's injured shoulder as the other man brought his good arm up and entwined his fingers in his hair, pulling Sherlock's head down, deepening the kiss, probing at Sherlock's lips with the tip of his tongue, seeking entrance. Sherlock obliged him and began to copy his friend's (lover's? Boyfriend's? Partner's?) movements, gently exploring his hot, wet mouth with his own tongue. The moans were positively indecent and Sherlock was surprised to discover they were coming from his own throat as he battled with John's tongue for dominance. John won, of course. Sherlock let him. Sherlock needed John to teach him and he planned on being an apt pupil. Meanwhile, Sherlock was wondering exactly why he had always been so averse to this kind of physical connection. He remembered that he had believed it would dull the brain, but that just wasn't true. Sherlock had never felt more alive, more alert. Every nerve in his body was on fire and it felt amazing.

They pulled apart for air, John's fingers still entangled in Sherlock's thick curls and the two gazed into each other's eyes. Not in the soppy way that would ordinarily make Sherlock feel a bit nauseous, but as if they were searching for something. And then Sherlock realised John was looking for the source of the detective's hesitation. Why had Sherlock been afraid to kiss him? He had to tell him or John would always doubt his feelings.

"It was my first." Sherlock explained, closing his eyes in shame.

"I thought that might be the reason," mused John. "But I wasn't sure. It was too good for a first time."

"I've always been a fast learner."

"Clearly."

Sherlock felt pressure on the back of his head and realised that John was pulling him to him again. Their lips met and this time there was nothing chaste about it as Sherlock felt John suck on his lower lip, biting it gently before tilting the detective's head back, kissing, licking and biting that pale expanse of throat. Sherlock heard himself growl – actually growl! – as his erection became unbearable and he found himself pulling away from John, standing up and then moving back to the chair.

Sherlock wanted this to continue. He wanted to climb into the hospital bed with John and have John teach him everything he knew about sex there and then. But that would be both impractical and uncomfortable. Not to mention difficult with John's injured shoulder. And there was that other thing, the thing that Sherlock didn't really want to admit. He was afraid. Afraid that John would find him repulsive, afraid that John wouldn't think he was any good, afraid that he would be letting John get too close to him, close enough to get burned. And John was looking at him. Not with hurt or resentment for the kiss being broken, but with patient understanding.

"We'll take it slow, Sherlock. You don't have to do anything that you don't want to do. Things don't even have to… To change between us, if you don't want them to. We can just go on like we did before, just knowing that we… Mean that bit more to each other." Only John could be so kind. Willing to offer a loving relationship without physical intimacy if it made Sherlock feel more comfortable. Except really all it made Sherlock feel was that he didn't deserve to have someone like John Watson in his life.

"I... I do want things to change. I want you. All of you. Everything that entails. But…" How to say this? How to say it without sounding like a complete idiot? "But before I met you, I didn't even think I was capable of feeling, let alone expressing that feeling physically. But with you I want to. It's just… It's just overwhelming. It's something I don't understand and I find that overwhelming."

"Then we take it slow."

"How slow?"

"As slow as you want, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock Holmes allowed himself the smallest of smiles. No, John Watson wasn't going anywhere. Sherlock was never going to lose him again.

A/N: This story is definitely NOT over but I do need to concentrate on other things for a little while so I can't see another chapter going up for another week/fortnight but we'll see. Thank you again for all your reviews. I find Sherlock hard to write as he's so unemotional but I'm hoping I'm getting the tone right. If I'm not, please let me know in reviews so I can try to alter it.